


The Smallest Piece of Everything

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Drinking, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Omnic Crisis, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Omnic Crisis, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Outside the spotlight, an omnic rights leader and a powerful man of interest can be who they truly are.





	The Smallest Piece of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for the wonderful @ruvikkin on tumblr!

****Mondatta does not enjoy martial arts as sport. Among the shambali, it is a defensive mastery, one of self-discipline and protection. To the contemporary world, it is little more than entertainment, who will stand victorious in flashing lights and the roar of the crowd. **  
**

Though he is a monk, he is the face of the shambali first. He had surrendered enlightenment to shield his order from those that would destroy them, so that his pupils may walk the path uninhibited. He must engage the world in all its forms. That is why Mondatta accepts an invitation to the international martial arts tournament in Nigeria.

The seats are artisan-made and hand-embroidered, the carafe next to him plated in gold. His host, a nigerian politician named Abidemi Oyekan, does not spare a glance at the finery. The man casts his eyes upon the ring as the fighters take their positions.

It was Oyekan’s idea to show his honored guest the pride of his city. Mondatta dutifully does not track each second that passes, nor estimates the average time of a competitive martial arts match. Instead, his array settles upon the ring as the two note blast signals the start of the fight.  

One combatant is large and brawny, with a blunt, crooked nose, broken many times over. The other is younger, slimmer, with sharp eyes. He wears a serious expression if not for the quirk of his lips.

It is the face of the man who knows victory and will not be kept from it.

Mondatta leans forward.

* * *

“Are all matches of this caliber so one-sided?” Mondatta asks, swirling the no doubt high grade oil in his glass.

“I hope it was not disappointing.” Oyekan himself does not sound disappointed, eyes shining as he continues. “Akande Ogundimu has been a favorite ever since he debuted. A master in the ring.”

“He certainly has an air about him.” Mondatta stares into his glass, array flickering.

His technique would have been at home in the monastery. Focused, keen in a way that belied his huge stature and raw power.

“You have an eye for this, Mr. Tekhartha.” Oyekan preens, taking another gratuitous sip from his own glass. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“It would be a great honor.” He dips his head.

Oyekan smiles. “It is done. I could not bear for you to leave without meeting one of our most prominent citizens.”

They take leave of their box seats, the omnics flanking the doors bowing as Mondatta passes. He nods in turn, stiffening a few percentages when Oyekan’s hand settles at the small of his back.

* * *

Akande towers over him. It’s impossible not to notice, especially when Mondatta must tilt his head to see his face. The man is freshly showered, clad in loose shorts and a small towel, made smaller by his sheer size, draped around his neck.

“Amazing job as always, Akande.” Oyekan says in greeting.

Akande smiles, but it does not reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Oyekan.” His gaze shifts to Mondatta. “I wish I had been given proper warning before being introduced to the likes of Tekhartha Mondatta.”

Akande pronounces each syllable of his name perfectly. Mondatta’s array brightens. He had not known he was known.

“My apologies.” The monk says. “My excitement forced Mr. Oyekan’s hand.” He extends it now towards the fighter, bowing his head.

Akande does not handle him as if he is fragile; his calloused hand envelops his own, firm and warm, onlining sensors from fingertip to wrist with a smooth shake.

“You honor me, Mr. Tekhartha.” Akande says. “I hear the shambali have a grand fighting style.”

“And a grander purpose.” Mondatta hums. “Our martial practices are not widely known. Is your knowledge due to your profession, or were you considering joining our cause?” His voice lilts upward, a joke, a smile in his voice.

Akande does not laugh. His eyes become curious, mouth half-parted.

“It is interesting that during an omnic crisis, there are those who would study a human mastery and not rely on larger, more contemporary firepower.”

Oyekan shifts nervously.

“Perhaps there is a place for such things, but ours is not the way of war. We strive to protect those who need it.”

“And would not people, omnic and human alike, be better protected with modern weaponry?” Akande’s eyes flash, and a smile, wide, with rows of pearly teeth, register in Mondatta’s optics.

“Please, Akande. It is not polite to discuss such matters.” Oyekan runs his fingers through his hair, glancing between them.

“Of course. Forgive me, Mr. Tekhartha.” He does not look sorry, wan smile balanced on his lips.

* * *

Mondatta does not see Akande for two years. The omnic crisis had run its course, left the world worse-off and shaken, and the need for reconciliation had made Mondatta busier than ever. A new city is being built, an olive branch of human-omnic ingenuity and cooperation.

The groundbreaking is the largest Mondatta has ever attended, and there is no end to familiar and new faces the whole night. Toast after toast has left him sluggish and warm, and he hardly notices the crowds thinning, business leader after politician congratulating him.

As one steps away, a mountain of a man fills her absence, casting Mondatta in shadow.

“Mr. Tekhartha.”

The voice onlines the sensors along his spine; the nearly forgotten sensation of looking up and up to meet dark eyes mesmerizing. Older, stronger, filling out every inch of his tailored suit, looking at home in it as easily as he did in the ring. When they shake hands again, it is not the warm roughness of his memory, but the smooth catch of synthetics gripping his own.

“Mr. Ogundimu. You look well.”

It is the oil; his world is slow motion, the needs of the present secondary to the heat of his own processors. The mala around his throat respond; Mondatta barely registers his own actions as he directs his orb with a gentle flick of his wrist.

“Looks are deceiving, however.”

The orb expands at its seams, a twin of itself, bright and golden, latches onto Akande’s shoulder. His tight expression fades to awe.

“It is little more than a biotic field.” Mondatta says.

The glow of harmony reflects in his dark eyes.

“I have felt biotic fields before.” Akande replies slowly. “This is not one.”

“Perhaps you have simply not experienced this particular type.” The serenity in his voice wavers, and then he giggles once.

“Forgive me. It has been a long evening.”

Laughter, low and pleasant, rumbles into his receptors. “I do not mind.”

The hand around his squeezes. Mondatta jerks away, but Akande doesn’t let go. Steam heats his vents.

“Your lights flicker when you are embarrassed. A dangerous tell for one of your stature.”

Mondatta’s fingers twitch towards his array before they curl into a fist, then relax.

“You assume much.”

The orb’s light shifts, a flare of violet swallowed in an instant by gold. A taste of discord is enough to make Akande gasp and release his hand, but he doesn’t pull away. He studies him with an expression that Mondatta cannot place.

“And you are quite the enigma.” Akande’s flesh hand grazes the underside of his chromed chin. “If I cannot read you, it only makes me want to stare.” His hand slips to the side of his neck. “Until I can identify every shift.” His fingertips brush along Mondatta’s spinal wires, just shy of politeness, a quiet chirp stolen from his synth. “Every sound.”

They are not alone; influential people mill about, drunk but present. They could hear, track each touch and quip. This exchange could ruin potential alliances in the future.

Mondatta steps back, a fraction of a percent from steaming.

“I do not enter into such arrangements.” He says with as much sternness as the buzz of oil allows.

“Then I will do everything to convince you.”

Later, he will blame it on the excessive evening, the way he cannot keep the glow of his array steady, how he replies with bravado he does not feel.

“Prove that your interest is true.”

Akande’s eyes sink to half-mast, his smile easy and pleased.

“Name your terms.”

* * *

Akande obeys. The heir to a fortune, a martial artist without rival, a graduate and businessman of the highest caliber arrives at Mondatta’s hotel room exactly when he had demanded.

He strips without question, doesn’t say a word, but the smugness radiates from him in waves, seconds from a quip or tease. Mondatta does not let him have the pleasure. He reclines in a too-comfortable chair, watching the man peel out of his three-piece suit, carefully folding each garment and placing it on the table.

There are new scars, new pains. Mondatta stares at his shoulder, still tender from the new prosthetic.

“Remove your arm.”

Akande blinks, shifts from wonder back to nonchalance, arm depressurizing from its struts with a hiss. He sets it next to his clothes like just another accessory, cocking his hips to balance himself, and still it looks like a pose, like something for Mondatta’s benefit.

“You are much too comfortable.” Mondatta says with a tone reserved for his students.

“You will have to try harder to shake me.”

A flash of emotion shocks into his processors. He slowly relaxes each strut and piston in his body, letting the sensation calm him. How did one man, a potential ally no less, ignite such fire in him?

“Kneel then.” Mondatta says, sliding into a standing position.

His mind works quickly, though he isn’t prepared for the idea it supplies. He opens the large closet next to his bed (never used), and retrieves a box (never opened), setting it on the mattress. The woman who had given it to him had whispered its contents against his faceplate before escaping in a haze of heady perfume. There was no use for what she had given. Not until now.

A card stamped with gold foil sits atop a pristinely folded sheet of tissue paper. It slides into the box as the crinkling paper reaches his receptors, guilt tugging him. It’s lunacy to do this, but Akande waits for him without a word, watching his hesitation.

He withdraws the gold-colored, woven cord from the box, thrilling at its soft texture against his servos. When he turns, the rope drawn taut between his hands, the sight of Akande kneeling, staring with a smile that only grows the longer he looks, solidifies his resolve.

“Do not speak.” Mondatta bites out, and Akande swallows his words.

He hides the trembling of his fingers as he approaches, stunned again at how Akande complies with his commands. He shifts as Mondatta walks and leans around him, adjusting and holding steady as the ropes tighten into place. He had learned the intricate knots long ago, before the shambali, before even free will was a vague ideation.

Mondatta plucks each cord, checking their integrity. Akande’s upper half is segmented, gold on umber, his muscles caught and straining against the bindings. The beautiful symmetry of him, even scarred and armless, does not escape Mondatta’s notice.

“You are good at this.”

“Another word will stop us here and now.” Mondatta clicks. “Do not stand. Lie on the bed.”

There is only a single moment of ungainliness until Akande curls forward, looking every bit a creature in his element as he slinks past Mondatta. He drinks in each muscle, every twitch and shift, a shuffle that should be more than awkward made smooth and sublime. At the edge of the bed, the man bends, enticing, inviting, before he hefts his leg up, granting him enough leverage to force his body onto the mattress. Mondatta waits until he settles on his back before moving himself. Even unflexed, he is large and impressive, his cock tumescent but thickening beneath his array.

Mondatta disrobes successfully slow, as if he is not already thick and aching behind his panel. As a leader, he has his power, yes, but never in a way where he could act as he pleased, never without worry for his image, for his subordinate’s wants and feelings.

With Akande’s steady gaze leveled at him, warm with desire, selfishness blooms like weeds. He climbs up the man’s body, ignoring how Akande’s eyes trace him from neck to thigh. Next time he will blindfold him, then he shakes his head. Next time, as if that would be a certainty.

Now he reaches between his legs, and Akande follows each motion, memorizing the sequence that releases his panel, has it sliding up and away to expose him.

He dares not touch himself or look, feeling swollen and overripe, like one caress will undo him. Mondatta turns around, denying Akande the pleasure of watching his faceplate as he lowers his valve to that no doubt smiling mouth.

He terminates the whimper lodged in his synth as Akande’s tongue lashes up to greet him, greedier than his nonchalance implies.

Mondatta should not be surprised that he is good at this, flicking his tongue lightly over his node, never too hard, in quick, rhythmic presses that have him grinding down before he can stop himself, fingers clutching at the man’s throat.

“Not too quickly. Slower.”

Akande chuckles against him, and Mondatta’s steams, grinds harder against that too pleased mouth.

It does little, Akande suckling him so sweetly that the pleasure, long forgotten beneath meditations and speeches, burns electric, bursting to the forefront. Akande knows he is good at this, so Mondatta leans forward, sliding his servos along the crosshatched cords along the man’s stomach.

His cock is hard and straining like the rest of him. He teases a fingertip around his glans, and Akande growls into him, tongue lapping quicker, too quickly, he’s barreling towards his end too soon. Mondatta ignores the leaking glans for something more urgent, stumbling when he cannot wrap his fist around its girth.

Mondatta tugs away, clumsy in his lust, a wet sound echoing when Akande’s lips lose his prize. There is only a second of fading capriciousness until Mondatta hurriedly turns back toward him, dragging his valve down Akande’s cock. He chrips, his cockhead butter-soft and slick against his node, teasing in a way that Akande’s mouth hadn’t been.

Akande flexes as he struggles to sit up, though he is careful to stay silent, watchful, even now, _especially_ now as Mondatta tugs the monstrous thing upright. He catches his cock between his lips and presses down, no give, but he’s unwilling to work himself open, hungry but suddenly terrified to stop.

His body convulses, pistons and struts shivering, and finally a catch, his synth wavering on a high, hard note, clipped short as the first few inches sink inside. His systems struggle to recalibrate, unused to such a large intrusion, but the warnings mean nothing as long denied sensors online for the first time in years.

“Easy.”

Mondatta ignores him, servos scrabbling at his stomach, catching and nearly fraying the ropes that keep him pinned. Akande is not helpless, not truly, could snap the ropes with a few deft motions, capture Mondatta’s waist in his huge hand and force him at his pace, use him to his satisfaction.

His thighs meet Akande’s hips with a quiet smack, the human groaning, pleased, desperate in a way that has been unknown to Mondatta until now.

A facade broken.

Mondatta does not go gently, snapping his hips down, long, rolling thrusts that have him near empty and filled in an instant, again and again, his body unable to compute the rush of sensory data flooding him. Akande’s breath draws short and sweet, his sweat prickling along Mondatta’s sensors as another wave of steam moistens the air.

He claims him without lips or teeth, with only the blinding glow of his array as it flickers and blooms from teal to gold, synth never louder than a whisper. _Closer_ , _yes_ , _there_ , _deeper_ , Akande’s grunts overshadowing his own soft sighs and pleas as his peak barrels through his systems, reducing him to chirps and clicks, hot, twitching silicone and teal slick and bright, wavering lights.

When his functions return enough to process his array’s feedback, he’s met with Akande’s eyes, unbelievably dark and hungry. The cords holding his arm are snapped, but his fingers twist into the sheets, playing nice, by Mondatta’s rules.

“What do you want...truly?” Mondatta says, softer, weaker than he means.

He shifts, sighs. Akande’s cock is his still, hard and twitching inside him, filling up every inch of his valve. It’s almost painful, his sensors recovering, but he lifts up and sinks down in one impossibly smooth slide, his array reflecting off the man’s gleaming body.

Akande swallows, clamping his lower lip between his teeth, his confident mask replaced with something so startling and open it nearly makes Mondatta cease.

“Everything.” He breathes.

* * *

Mondatta does not let Akande go. Not after they are finished, when he tugs each cord away, oiling the man’s skin where the fabric has chaffed. Not when they leave in dawn’s light, not when they meet every few months when their schedules allow.

Akande does not change around him, care and gentleness in every motion, allowing Mondatta his power, enjoying whatever the omnic grants.

He has to see it on the news, Akande slaughtering his master, assuming his new mantle.

Doomfist.

The discord wars within Mondatta for months, even when Overwatch takes him, in his last thought as the bullet pierces his faceplate.

The Shamabli. Zenyatta. Akande, smiling, teasing him, acquiescing to him at every turn.

When Doomfist reads a day’s old paper detailing Tekhartha Mondatta’s death, he knows with startling clarity that he will take the world, take everything. That there is nothing left but this singular purpose.

As he greets the bone white mask of an old ghost and assumes his rightful place at Talon’s head, studies the dossier of the new Overwatch agents, his heart seizes at the sight of a bright array, so familiar.

Yet, as pathetic hope fades into resignation, he knows it is not the same at all.

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt requests or questions, hit me up on [tumblr!](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
